An interlude before the jump to the final showdown (or one of them, anyway)
Takes place about when you destroy the metalhead nest in Haven. Jak went because he was already under the temple looking for the Wind-Serpent. At least this time, Damas made him take backup.
TW for body horror mentions when Má shows up (Her description, specifically) and for mentions of Dark Makers being...suboptimal doctors. They get a "you tried" sticker for bedside manner.
(but not for Cyber-Errol actually being a cyborg. I'm not a fan of media that does the whole "Oh character went mad after cyborg surgery" trope because a lot of it comes off as pretty ableist tbh. Like, dude prosthetics exist. Adaptive equipment exists. Don't make them horror props. And that's my rant for the day, so now you can deal with me tormenting Errol 😆)
There were a few gaps in Errol's memory.
No, that wasn't quite right.
There were gaping chasms. Things his new masters friends weren't able to decode yet.
They'd calmly explained while trying different shapes of frame to put him in that the dark eco had only preserved most of his engrams. Not that Errol really remembered them saying this. He tried not to think about how he'd been revived.
It was a mercy that he didn't need sleep anymore.
He probably wouldn't have slept again anyway after witnessing the Dark Makers salvaging and reassembling his body piecemeal, asking him periodically what this piece was for and where that piece was meant to go and was iron or chrome a better substitute-
Never, not even in the Dark Warrior Program, could he have dreamed up something like that — it was supposed to make soldiers, wasn't it? He was fairly certain the program had been for making soldiers. Soldiers had to be able to actually fight, it would've been counterintuitive and a waste of resources to induce unnecessary procedures according to...to...
Errol remembered his face. One half of it was metal, just like his. He was important, Errol knew that, but he couldn't remember why.
One thing he did remember was The Boy.
He didn't know when they'd met, but he knew Jak hated him and he hated Jak. He knew Jak was to blame for the unthinkable suffering he'd experienced after his "death". He knew he'd stolen his victory at the NYFE races, and he was a rebel against...against...who?
He was the harpy's father, yes? Praxis, his name had to have been Praxis, then.
Ashelin didn't deserve him, she didn't appreciate what she had-!
Errol knew something else about Jak now.
Something his allies had warned him about.
They'd had to upload the relevant historical information to his techno-organic brain in order for it to mean anything to him, but the brat was the heir of an old enemy of the Dark Makers.
Very convenient, uploading information straight to his brain. Errol couldn't make himself think of his restoration, but he certainly appreciated the adaptative upgrades. Much higher-quality than the prosthetics and adaptive equipment those Wastelanders favored, but for the first time in his life he understood why they made them instead of just discarding their wounded.
Errol had lost some of his memories, and most of his original body, not his ability to fight and plan. Not his self. He was still just as much Errol as he had been before the brat's interference.
Not, of course, that someone like Errol would ever have admitted that the Wastelanders were more advanced than him when it came to attitudes about physical abilities.
He had to hate them on principle already, considering the bloody House of Mar had survived because of them.
They were like cockroaches! It you didn't make sure they were dead, they multiplied!
Kill the grubs, and there was less chance of them multiplying.
The grub was headed for that wretched desert right now. He had a little mouse hole to hide in out there. Errol knew that for a fact, he'd seen his smug little face, surrounded by other whelps, laughing at the remains of his lieutenant. And then the little fool had actually returned to Haven! Luck was finally with Errol again. It didn't matter that the brat had friends with him-
Since when does he fight in a unit? Since when does anyone actually protect the freak?
"Why aren't we taking the air train?!" one of Jak's soldiers was shouting as the brat did what the brat did best and hijacked a hellcat.
Of all the useless things to remember, why did Errol have a detailed tally of how many times his enemy had committed grand theft auto?!
"And lead that thing to the others?" the shrill voice of the rat retorted, "Use your noodle, Ace!"
Jak seemed to be ignoring the blue-haired Wastelander's question. He waved vaguely to a bearded one and one with a cybernetic eye. Not as good as Errol's, of course, but he would admit that it was a well made prosthetic.
"Roth, Phaeng, you're on the guns. Keep him off our tail. Asa, call home."
"Off your tail?" Errol murmured, altering course slightly, "Not likely."
I always win, Jak.
Oh, he was going to make that little worm wish he'd never been born.
This turned out to be slightly more challenging than expected.
He could cover vast distances with speed, but there had to be solid ground under him. And the heart of the Wastelands was an island. It helped that the stupid boy seemed to be trying to lose him in the archipelago, like he thought a hellcat wouldn't be conspicuous.
Perhaps he thought Errol would lose his footing and fall into the ocean. Little fool, even that wouldn't stop him! Errol no longer needed to breathe!
He was tireless. Relentless. Five hours was nothing to revenge.
How ironically appropriate that the boy should run out of road so near to the place where Errol had first discover he still lived.
Now it would be his grave — if he was lucky enough to die. He hadn't decided yet if he wanted to kill Jak or draw it out. Perhaps bring him to his new friends. They would certainly appreciate the possibilities-
Oh. He remembered now. He remembered why the eco freak was an eco freak.
That was his handiwork! Well, his oversight of others' handiwork, but Errol had never been one to give credit where credit was due.
Yes, the Dark Makers would be very appreciative of a little dark warrior. A corrupted Heir. How wonderfully ironic it would be!
If Errol let him live.
He probably wouldn't.
But he'd bring it up, just to see the fear in Jak’s eyes.
And there he was now, trying to hide in a canyon. It looked as though his friends had abandoned him, save for the rat — that seemed typical. How marvelous. No honor amongst thieves after all.
"Oh dear, all out of friends, Jak?"
Errol landed with an impact that made the stones rattle.
"I do hope you'll at least make it interesting for me. Try not to lose the will to live after I kill the rodent, I'd be quite disappointed."
The brat lifted his chin — ugh, he'd lost none of his defiance.
"Fully upgraded legs and boosters, and I still beat you in a race. Gods that's pathetic."
He was talking back. This was new. Usually he let the rat do the talking while he did the shooting or driving. Errol wasn't sure he liked this. Where was the fear? The rage?
Pum pum
He missed the first drumbeats. Errol was too distracted by Jak holstering his weapon and turning his back on him! Him! Like he meant nothing after all those years of terrorizing him!
"Goodbye, Errol."
Pum pum
What was he doing?
"Fleeing already?" Errol sneered, "Or have you just given up?"
Jak had the gall to dismissively wave him off without even looking behind him.
"You're not my problem anymore."
Pum-pum pum-pum
"My only job was to lead you into the kill zone."
PumpumPapumpum
Pumpumpum
He couldn't ignore the drums anymore. They reverberated off the walls of the canyon, like a colossal heartbeat, growing louder and louder. Feedback screeched across his audio processors, solidifying into a shrill ringing that drowned out everything else. Everything but the drums.
Pumpum papumpum
Pumpumpum
Pumpum papumpum
Pumpumpum
The freak stopped short at the end of the canyon wall like he'd run into an obstacle. Grimacing in either pain or anxiety, he crouched, squeezing his eyes shut and clamping his hands over his ears as the rat did the same.
There, that was the best opportunity Errol was going to get.
But as he took a step forward, powering up his cannon arm, the heat mirage behind Jak...moved.
From the heat shimmering at the end of the passage, a strange figure emerged. It walked with a curious gait, almost a shuffling dance. A hide cloak covered a hide dress, jingling with hundreds of bone beads. The hood of the cloak held no face, only an endlessly deep black void, and the skull of a crocadeer, wreathed in cactus flowers.
What in every circle of the seven Precursor hells was that?
The preposterous figure meandered closer at a pace that would've been too easy to outrun. But they all seemed to be frozen in place. He watched the deer skull bobbing from side to side with each step and each drumbeat. Not a drum at all: long, gnarled gray fingers tipped with wicked claws tapped out a rhythm on the stretched hide of the gown.
Its hypnotic dance held them transfixed as it came to a stop over Jak's huddled form.
The skull did not move, but the void seemed to tilt in a way that made Errol nauseous.
He shouldn't have been able to feel nausea.
A fear so palpable it had nearly a physical weight to it settled over him. This was something far beyond his comprehension. Neither hu'men nor Precursor, ancient. And angry.
It traced a long claw over one of the fractal scars on the brat's arm.
Each one felt then something scratching, clawing at their minds. Agonizing tearing until there was a hole in their being big enough to whisper through.
"Who hasssss done thissss? Hmm? Ssssshow me."
The brat didn't move, but Errol felt the accusatory finger aimed at him nonetheless.
The crocadeer skull turned in his direction, and the figure stalked towards him. That was when Errol saw the tail, long and scaly, poking out from beneath the dress.
The tiny bones and teeth jingling around wrists and neck — dozens, hundreds of bones. Its patchwork veil and gown didn't look like cloth anymore. It was leather, many colors and textures of leather.
And some of those squares had
Oh gods
Some
Oh gods nononono
Some of the squares still had faces.
"Not much, not much."
The terrible voice twisted in Errol's brain, he felt things sparking, shorting out.
"But Má makessss do."
The gnarled fingers pointed back at Jak.
"Run home to Baba, sssnakelet. Run along, interloper hatchling. Not for younglingsss eyesss what Má mussst do."
Jak stumbled to his feet. He didn't run — didn't seem like he could — but he didn't look back.
The whine of engines was completely drowned out by the ringing. It wasn't until the hellcat rose up that Errol realized Jak had never been cornered at all. He could almost respect it. Not that he had time to think of such things for long.
The hellcat was a mile from the canyon before sound came back. Jak leaned back against the seat and blocked out Errol's distant screams. He knew what was happening and he didn't want to think about it.
"You good?" Daxter whispered.
Daxter very clearly was not. He hadn't stopped shaking once. The first spirit he'd ever encountered and it was the one every parent prayed their child would never need.
"Would've been faster to just shoot him," Asa said in a subdued voice.
Phaeng shook his head.
"You don't rob Má of her prey. Not if you're smart."
"There's the beacon." Jak pointed over Roth's shoulder. "Put her down on the cliffs."
Roth blew out a long breath.
"Yep. Let's hope getting Spargus its own hellcat will be enough to keep your father from strangling us when he finds out we let you do that."
Jak cracked a smile, still shaky with adrenaline.
"Nah, you'll be fine. I might get house arrest though."
"Yeah I'm not helping you out of that one, bud." Phaeng shook his head. "Peewee, you good to go to the range with us until Jak gets parole?"
Daxter cleared his throat three times before he got a handle on his words.
"Naturally."
"Traitor," Jak signed discreetly.
Daxter was wholly unrepentant. Being small enough to sit on shoulders meant half the time the Wastelanders assumed he'd been dragged into Jak's chaos and not the other way around. It was very convenient, unless you were Jak.
This video is encoded on the Rupturemobile's hard drives. Watch it?
>>Yes
>No
[Video ID: Dr. Shale is standing n a beach, with the camera pointed out towards Castelia bay. Based on the location of skyarrow bridge, it's probably somewhere just south of Nacrene city.
The doctor turns towards the camera, setting sun behind his back, casting the massive smile on his face in shadow.
"Greetings und salutations to the fine people of Unova- und to all the ships at sea! Mein name ist Dr. Burness Shale, und I have come to you with a very special announcement! That is to say-"
Suddenly, there are two deep and echoey thuds. The doctor has time to get out a "Wos-?" before the ocean's surface bursts in a thunderous explosion. A shout of alarm comes from behind the camera, as Raze- a massive Machtan Steelix- dives between Dr. Shale and the shrapnel which comes raining down.
Peering around the creature's head, the mad engineer furiously slams his cane into the sand.
"Wh- WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?! We had a predetermined time when the bombs should go off, und they were meant to take out that support on the bridge! That aquatic- eh?"
Again from out of frame, Hundau- a midday Lycanroc- trots into frame. In his jaws is what looks like the mangled remains of a diving suit helmet with a scratched-out Team Aqua logo.
"What the...?"
Offscreen, Cecil's voice bursts out "WHAT THE-?!"
But Shale isn't looking at the sorry remains of what had probably had a head in it.
He reaches out and removes a small magnetic item from the back of the helmet plate. It twinkles a brilliant orangey-gold in the setting sun.
"How could this...- ACH! CUT THE FILM ALREADY, YOU BUMMELZ! We must leave. Now. Before things get very exciting around here!"
The last few seconds are just the other team shale members yelling at each other in Machtan, but as it shuts off one more time Shale can be heard saying, very softly...
Hurt/no comfort, please read the tags, offscreen CD
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: Thorin has been unconcious for weeks after BOFTA.
His healer is not Oin and he doesnt understand why. He doesnt understand anything until his husband walks into the tent.
And as always, and excerpt:
“Bilbo!” Thorin called out, his voice rising with urgency. After feasting his eyes on the hobbit he loved, he craned his neck to look toward the tent flap, searching for any sign of his loyal companions, the rest of the Company.
“Where’s Dwalin? Why isn’t he guarding me? Is he well? Was he injured?”
Bilbo’s expression hardened at each question Thorin asked. The pain in his eyes was clear as he stepped closer to the bed bound dwarf. His anger was obviously simmering beneath the surface.
“Thorin…” he began, but the weight of his unspoken words hung heavy in the air.
Thorin’s heart raced as he searched Bilbo’s face, desperate for reassurance. “What happened to him? Tell me he’s safe!”
380. From off the battlements of any tower (falling all around us we so rarely become heroes) (Tales of Arcadia)
Title: From off the battlements of any tower (falling all around us we so rarely become heroes)
Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50494216
Creator: @yellowmagicalgirl
Work Type: fanfiction
Fandom: Tales of Arcadia
Rating: teen
Pairing: Gen with background poly and F/F
Word Count: 1,370
Warnings: Offscreen Child Abuse, Offscreen Character Death
Number of comments: 0
Completion Status: complete
Short summary/description: Commander Oh Ophelia You’ve Been On My Mind Girl Since The Flood dies, and then she watches her daughter grow up.
Snippet:
“Hi, Mom,” Claire said as she reached her mom’s niche. “I wanted to tell you that I’m the Reverend Daughter now. Are you proud of me?”
It wasn’t something to be proud of, not really. Maybe if there were more kids around than the now-Tarrnova twins, it’d be an accomplishment to be the best necromancer of the youngest generation of the Ninth House. If Claire really wanted to accomplish something, then she’d have to be the best necromancer of her generation within the entire empire.
“I’m not going to replace you, though!” she clarified. “I don’t think the Reverend Mother and Father would ever love me like you do.”
Claire knew the story of how she came to the Ninth House like she knew all the bones in a hand. Her mom had mysteriously jumped down the drillshaft, and she only had enough power in her haz suit to save one of them. And because she loved her baby daughter so much, she decided to save Claire instead of herself.
He dreams that he's back in the Temple, alone in his quarters save for some scattered droid parts and Ahsoka's sabers hidden by the desk. There's a little trinket from Padme, too, and an old book of Obi-wan's—A Jedi's Guide to Moving Meditation or something of the sort. He doesn't know why his back here—doesn't even know if they'd let him back here after he killed the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic, Sith or no. After they learned that he'd spent the past decade in the close company of the Sith Master, the Sith Master who'd wanted—who'd wanted Anakin as his apprentice, oh, force, he's—
The door creaks open.
"Anakin," Obi-wan's voice filters into the room, and his head snaps up. He hasn't seen Obi-wan in—in weeks, since his desperate flight from Coruscant after leaving a smoking body behind in the Chancellor's Office. He's stuck in some backwater Outer Rim dustball now, thankfully with less sand than Tatooine, but he'd gotten rid of the commlink back on Coruscant and there's no way to contact him—or for him to contact anyone.
Not that it matters. He needed to—he needed to disappear, so he did.
"What are you doing here?" Obi-wan asks, stepping into the room fully and raising an eyebrow.
Anakin swallows dryly. "What do you mean? These are my rooms, Obi-wan."
"These rooms belong to a Jedi." Obi-wan says lightly.
There's a silence. Anakin opens his mouth and closes it again. I am a Jedi, he wants to say, but. But. He isn't, not really. Not anymore.
"Not," Obi-wan continues, voice suddenly chillingly void, "to friends of the Sith."
"What," Anakin chokes out, suddenly going cold. Obi-wan raises a glare towards him and suddenly Anakin feels like he might drown.
"Let's not play games here, Anakin. Practically the whole Temple knows about you and the Chancellor by now."
The whole Temple. . . you and the Chancellor. . . You. And the Chancellor.
"I didn't know!" he says, gasping for breath, begging for Obi-wan to understand, "I didn't know he was the Sith!"
"Please, Anakin," says Obi-wan, cold and utterly devoid of any sympathy, "we both know you knew exactly what you were doing."
"I didn't—I—"
"You let him train you," Obi-wan says, stepping closer. "You let him meet with you, week after week, day after day, letting him fill your head with lies and poison and darkness. You believed every word. And then," he stops, eyes boring into him, "And then you killed him. As a Sith Apprentice kills their Master."
"I didn't know! " he practically shouts, twisting his fingers into his hair and yanking. "I thought—I thought he was my friend, I thought—"
"Ah." Obi-wan says, and Anakin looks up with a shred of hope. But his face is as stony as ever. "You were stupid, then. A pathetic leech on our lineage's legacy—and your mother's."
"No," he breathes. "No—"
"You disgust me." Obi-wan says simply.
He turns and leaves him standing there, not even bothering to look back, and suddenly Anakin wishes—wishes that he'd shout, rage, shake him, or slap him, or anything, anything but this.
He doesn't.
Anakin sinks to his knees and lets the tears come until the dream fades away and he wakes.
Angstcember - I mean, Nightmarecember Day 17: Candles
"I don't get it", Nightmare mumbled as he placed down another candle on the makeshift shrine they built.
"You don't have to", Killer whispered as he walked out of the shadows behind the other, placing a blanket over Nightmare's shoulders. "Some things.. don't have explanations, and some explanations aren't made for us to understand."
"What use is there to immortality if all it ever brought me was sadness, loss.."
"...", Killer stayed quiet, he didn't know how to answer. All he knew was that he didn't have long anymore either and it pained him already.
He had a good life after the king resqued him, long and fulfilling. But it was time that his soul lay to rest as well, just like his friends did before him.
"Why must I watch all of you die?", Nightmare asked as he finally stood up from his kneeling position. "I live on unchanged, unfaced by all of this, it's not fair."
"Boss", Killer said, hugging the other. He trailed his arms up to Nightmare's chest, right above his soul. "They may not be visible, but we did leave marks on you. I'm sorry you have to carry them with you, maybe it really would've been better if we didn't.."
Nightmare gripped down on Killer's shoulders like his life depended on the other, pressing his head against the other's chest. Killer could've sworn he heard a sob.
"Don't leave me, please."
Killer sighed. He didn't want to lie, but he didn't want to hurt Nightmare even more by telling him the truth. "I'll stay as long as I can", he settled on. "And now, let's go back in, you should-"
"Eat?", Nightmare asked sarcastic. "Sleep? I don't need to, remember? That's just the monster I am."
"You're not-! You're a God, Nightmare!"
"Then why! Why can't I-", his harsh tone broke as a sob tore though his whole body. "-why can't I get you to stay with me?"
Because death is stronger than you, Killer thought as he picked Nightmare up and carried him back into the little hut they shared nowadays.
CW: Religion mention, lady whump, major character death
@whumptober2020 day 20
--
The stain glass of the church cast a green light across the pews, yellowing tile giving a distinctly mossy look to the floor despite the sharp sounds of Tiffany’s footsteps. She approached the altar through the empty rows, supposing she shouldn’t find it odd that the space would be empty, despite the church’s size. And the fact that it was the centerpiece of the convent. Hm.
“Excuse me?” she called out quietly, her voice echoing in the space. Gorgeous acoustics. She came to a halt right before the altar and stared at the smooth plane, the lovely woodworking on its edges. Then she lifted her eyes to the stained glass pouring light upon her. The glass eyes of the virgin mother stared sympathetically down at her, and she raised a hand to her neckline, fishing out her rosary. She gripped it tightly in hand, contemplating a prayer.
“What is this I find fresh upon our altar?” The nun’s voice cut through the echoing silence of the church and Tiffany turned. Smiled.
“A wanderer, my sister,” she answered. “A traveller passing through.”
The nun approached slowly, a warm smile folding up into her many sagging wrinkles. “You are a most welcome arrival my child. Travellers are a cherished treasure in this abbey.” Tiffany extended a hand with a smile and the nun covered it with both of her own soft, cool ones.
“I am Theophania,” she said, “Tiffany.”
“Welcome, young Theophania. I am Sister Ester. Come. We are about to eat; I insist you join us.”
Tiffany’s smile widened. “I could hardly impose.”
“Nonsense. You are weary from your travels and have many stories in your memories. A brain such as yours would be welcome at our table.”
Tiffany bowed her head respectfully, accepting the invitation. Sister Ester was correct, after all. She was tired, weary from a long journey and anticipating the set at it again early in tomorrow’s dawn. A warm meal and pleasant company was… more than welcome. And after, she might receive a blessing from the nuns, so that her soul might continue on unblemished and unburdened.
Sister Ester walked very slowly, and now that she was closer, Tiffany could see that she actually walked with a limp.
“Worry not, child. Some years ago I was bitten, and it has changed my gait,” Sister Ester explained when Tiffany inquired about it.
“Therefore, I am glad to see you recovered and well, holy sister.”
A few more nuns joined them as they walked to the refectory, curious about Tiffany, one reaching up and pinching her cheek, remarking on the health of her skin and cute red flush. Tiffany was unused to this level of attention, particularly from those of the church, but she was scarcely going to complain.
The nunnery seemed well populated, though all the nuns moved with the same unrushed slowness of old women who were quite well going to take their time and those younger lot could come to terms with such. Even the younger looking nuns moved at the same snail’s pace, but, well, they were nuns. Tiffany supposed it was only expected. Grace and graciousness and all that.
The refectory was full of pleasant conversation and a general air of excitement, which spiked when Tiffany came through the doors and all attention turned to her. She laughed, a touch self conscious, and waved hello, chuffed to be the center of attention. They really must not get many visitors here--although, this was a small town, secluded. And in the aftermath of the recent plague, travellers like herself had settled down in secure cities, not wishing to risk the roads just yet.
But she was brave, and reckless, and unwilling to wait when the queen’s armies had assured the populace that all was safe once more.
“Now, dear Theophania,” Sister Ester said once they were seated. “Let us pray, and then we shall feed.”
Tiffany bowed her head, clasping her hands neatly in her lap and closing her eyes. She heard the faint shuffling of those she assumed would be the ones who would bring in the food once prayers were said, but the refectory was otherwise silent.
Sister Ester began her prayer by asking blessing on Tiffany, that she be accepted well into the heavens and her soul be blessed, and many thanksgivings that she had been sent to this convent. But then, instead of moving on to bless the meal, Tiffany felt hands on her. She opened her eyes in confusion, looking to one nun, then the other, their hands like vices on her shoulders.
She tried to shake them off, alarm rising in her swiftly, but while their grips did not so much as flag, some of the skin peeled off one hand. Rotted. Rotted to the bone.
“No.”
“And we ask a blessing on our meal,” Sister Ester continued, now open-eyed and looking at Tiffany with hunger. “May the food be a blessing to our bodies, and our bodies a blessing to our service. And for young Theophania--”
“NO!”
“--we pray--”
“GET OFF ME!”
“That she be strong and steadfast!”
“LET ME GO!”
“That she shall not fear, or be dismayed!”
“I DON’T WANT TO DIE LIKE THIS!”
“For eternal grace shines upon her!”
The other nuns, the zombies, were closing in, salivating now.
“...Wherever she shall go.”
Tiffany went down under their hands, slow but impossibly strong, screaming at the sight of rotting teeth.
Honestly, Antonio couldn’t put a finger on why he felt so damn guilty, at first. Then he’d talked to Quinn Kristofferson and suddenly, the memories were flooding him.
“Antoni, Antoni!”
“Yes, mama?” the lawyer smiled, listening to his mama’s cheerful chirping over the phone – he hadn’t seen her in months, but they talked all the time. She and his mom always called him to check up on him, what with his fancy new prosecutor job.
“You’re never gonna believe this, Antoni! Little Gio – his boyfriend proposed, Antoni! He’s getting married!”
Antonio felt his smile grow. He hadn’t talked to Giovanni in a month or so, but the lawyer understood that his little brother was busy.
“Oh – that’s such great news!” He exclaimed. He enjoyed being genuine for once, his emotions not putting on a show to win a case. He paused, however – hang on – “Mama, does his fiancé know…?”
“Si, si, Sorin knows about the situation our little Gio is in…” her tone turned mournful, his mama was so worried about her younger son, getting mixed up in the mafia. Mom seemed to encourage him, at times – “Oh, Bella, you know it gets us protection!” – but Mama hated it.
“I swear, mama, I’m going to get enough money to pull you all out of there,” Antonio swore. He’d promised the same thing so many times, it was beginning to feel empty – but he would, he was determined! He’d save Giovanni, and his fiancé – Sorin, he was named? – out of this stupid mob mess. He’d make enough money working these cases and he’d do it!
“Oh, Antoni…” he could practically hear the sad smile he knew was upon her lips. “Antoni, baby, you don’t have to do that for us…”
“It’s the least I can do for the wonderful women who raised me, and my whole damn family. I will get you all out of there, I promise!”
“Thank you, Antoni…you’re a good boy. I’ll call again when I know more about the wedding! I love you, baby!”
Click.
That particular one made the forger smile as he wrote it all down – he didn’t want to forget again. No, he’d remember this, he’d hold onto his anger, he’d – he’d…he’d actually live up to his promises for once. He would get Edythe out of this hell hole, fuck Jimmy and Gilbert Walpole-Blunt, endangering himself and the light of his life by killing the most obvious spy ever, who was bound to have contingency plans-
No one is so fucking blatant about their role unless there would be consequences for killing them, no one! So fuck these morons thinking they could just bully their way through this, he wasn’t interested in some stupid revenge plot if it meant he and Edythe were going to be interrogated and caught and executed!
…
The phone buzzed later that night. Giovanni. Antonio answered it quickly, eager to hear more about this engagement, but -
“Hello?”
…That wasn’t Giovanni’s voice.
Too deep, too raspy, a different accent (was that Romanian…?).
“Who is this?” the lawyer demanded, worry edging his tone – why was someone else calling from Giovanni’s phone?
“…Sorin, Sorin Florescu. I am Giovanni’s fiancé…” his voice broke a bit. “Was, was his fiancé…”
“What do you mean?!”
Panic. Was? Was?!
“G-Gio – I found him in his bed, not breathing, bruises on his neck-“ the voice over the phone broke into sobs and Antonio just listened to the blubbering for a few minutes because no, no! Impossible, impossible, Giovanni was engaged and getting married and Antonio would rescue him, no he wasn’t dead he wasn’t dead he couldn’t be dead-!
